


The Bastard and The Spare

by MannixMind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Forbidden Love, Lechery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MannixMind/pseuds/MannixMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Jon is the true born son of Ned Stark and Arya is the 'bastard' brought home from war.  Growing up as the female bastard of a great lord Arya was always told by her step-mother that there was only one path to happiness for her - to grow into a beautiful accomplished woman and convince some lowly, aged bannerman that her father's favor was worth the shame of taking a bastard as a wife.  From the moment she was brought to Winterfell Catelyn Stark began to count down the days until she could be pushed out of the castle and into the arms of a husband.  But her father, thank the Gods, loved her enough not to rush that day and her brother Jon did all that he could to see that no one thought that their advances would be appreciated.  But one day Winterfell is visited by someone Jon can't scare away, someone even her father has a hard time saying no to.  And that is the day when Arya Snow's life changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The old wives never seemed to agree on what the birth of twins foretold. Some said they brought luck - a double blessing on a family - a sign of plenty to come. Others swore twins were a bad omen – an unnatural trick from the Children of the Forest - an indication that the future held peril and deceit.

When she found out she was pregnant with twins though Catelyn Stark didn’t think about any of those things though. Admittedly, she didn’t think about much in those days, at least not much beyond Ned and the excitement of running a home on her own. But when they told her that her womb was swelling so because it carried two babes she _did_ think, but not about omens or signs of the future. No, Catelyn’s thoughts were all taken up with one dreadful topic – the possibility of her own death.

She wasn’t a small woman, by any means, but more than a fair share of women died delivering just one child. Just two weeks before she found out she was carrying two the butcher’s wife had died delivering the fattest baby boy she had ever seen. No, as far as she was concerned two babes at once was nothing to celebrate.

Her labor came late one snowy night. Ned had just returned from King’s Landing, where his father and older brother were serving King Aerys. Lyanna was still in the Erie and would be for the foreseeable future. Cat had been afraid for a time that she would deliver alone, in this cold Northern hell, with no one she knew anywhere near.  That more than anything made her hold out in stubbornness until Ned's party arrived. She was already having contractions when he slid off of his horse.  She saw him through the tower window go to Ser Rodrik anxiously, before glancing up to her window with a look of wide-eyed panic on his face, and then rushing into the keep. She heard him lumbering up the stairs two at a time, making more noise than an invading army, and she couldn’t help but laugh, despite her fears and discomfort. He was here, and if he was here, she would be alright.

The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her body was wracked with contractions for hours, sapping her strength and leaving her spent and terrified as Ned paced anxiously outside the door. Finally, as dawn was approaching, the first child came. His hair was a blaze of glory, mirroring the red rays of sunlight that had begun to stream into her room. He was perfect, and beautiful, and all she could think was that if the gods were kind she would be done now. Bu they had not been kind, and so instead of holding her baby, her boy, to her chest and resting she had to continue on.

The midwife was alarmed with each passing minute, assuring her over and over again that the second one would come any second now, but with a worried look on her face that told Catelyn that this was not normal for a double delivery.  With each passing second she felt her strength leaving her and her body giving up as her first son screamed for her and was finally silenced on the teat of a wet nurse.

_No. No he’s mine. He’s mine and I’m missing it. I’m missing it because of this accursed second child._

Finally, forty-eight minutes after her first son was born the head of the second baby began to crown. As soon as he heard the second wail Ned burst through the doors, unwilling to wait any longer.

The second child was still pink from birth but with skin that would clearly be pale as milk when he calmed. On the top of his head sat a thatch of dark brown curls, so dark it was almost black in the hazy sunlight of dawn. Ned took him from the midwife in awe, marching straight past the wet nurse in the corner, all eyes on the newly delivered babe.

“Jon,” he breathed, eyes brimming with tears. “Welcome to the world, little wolf.”

For some reason, the scene, which should have melted her heart, made Catelyn burn with fury.

 _That’s the wrong son_. She thought angrily.

“You- Woman!” She snapped at the wet nurse, who jumped to her feet. “Take the second babe. He’s hungry. And give Lord Stark his _firstborn son and heir_ – Robb.”

The woman scurried over, taking the dark haired infant from Lord Stark and replacing him with _her_ boy, her ruddy cheeked, Tully colored babe. She knew then that she could never love the second son as much as she loved her boy, even when Ned took the lighter-haired baby with the same look of glorious awe that he’d worn when he’d first held Jon. Still she couldn’t help but notice that the babe, though precious and perfect in every way, looked far less like the mirror of his father than the second child did. Should Ned want the darker boy as his heir, all he’d have to do is say so and it’d be done.

Catlyn realized then what twins meant. For her at least – twins meant competition. And she _would_ see that her boy won.

 

* * *

 

 

Eight months after the boys were born, Ned left for War. His sister had been taken, taken by the son of the King, and his father and brother were killed for daring to ask for her back. He and Robert Baratheon led the Realm in a rebellion, plunging the seven kingdoms into a state of civil war that had not been seen for hundreds of years. Catelyn, whose stomach began to grow four months after her husband’s departure, could do nothing but worry and wait.

Sansa was born on a beautiful spring day while Ned was off fighting in the Reach. She’d never thought she could love anything as much as she loved Robb, but when her daughter locked her beautiful eyes on her she just knew, knew that she would go through hell and back for this girl. She had a moment of guilt, feeling herself fill with such love for Sansa, knowing that her ability to love another made her indifference towards Jon all the more inexcusable - but she couldn’t help herself.

For the next year and a half she waited for Ned to come home, living with her children and watching them grow from babes into toddlers and finally into children. She delighted over how Robb would call Sansa “my baby” and kiss her on the forehead before scampering off play with Jon, laughing and running around the keep without a care in the world. She had to admit that the boys were perfect together, the closest companions anyone could hope for. Jon sensed her distance towards him – and she guessed the household did as well – and so he learned to turn to others for his comfort or, if she was being honest, turn inward for support. He was quieter than Robb, less self-assured, but every time she felt herself feeling pity for her second-born son she would catch Old Nan calling him over and ruffling his dark curls, exclaiming how much he looked like his father, and her heart would harden again. No, he was too much of a risk to Robb for her to waiver.

Then one day a raven came – proclaiming the impossible. They’d taken King’s Landing, Aerys was dead by the hand of his own King’s Guard and _Robert Baratheon_ of all people had been crowned King. It was the first good news they’d had in a long while – especially after Ned’s tear stained letter about losing Lyanna two months before. Not all the news was purely good though. There was less settling news as well – the King’s whole family, the whole Targaryen line including the babes, were dead. It was a chilling reminder of what could have happened if things had gone the other way.

But the real news, the only news she truly cared about, was that Ned was coming home. She loved her children, but she was a shell of herself without Ned. All would be well when he was back in her arms, she was sure of it. Maybe when he was home she could even find it in her heart to love Jon.

She had the boys lined up and _clean_ (no small feat with three year old twins) with the whole household waiting anxiously in the court yard when Ned’s party came riding up the road towards Winterfell. She was so excited she could hardly breathe. He was so close.

She had to stop herself from running to him when he came riding into the keep. She could tell that her energy was contagious became the boys were looking up at her fidgeting with curious glances and Sansa was giving her a look that would be described as condescending if it was possible for an eighteen-month-old to condescend.

Then she saw what was cradled in Ned’s lap and it was as if someone had doused her heart in ice water. Curled up against his chest, grey eyes surveying its surroundings in awe, was a baby. She couldn’t have been more than three months old, but even so, her wispy dark brown curls, cream colored skin, and grey eyes made the truth of her lineage clear for all to see. She was a Stark. Ned had been unfaithful.

Catelyn was frozen, rooted to the spot in shock. The household was glancing at her nervously, not daring to greet their lord (and their loved ones who followed in his retinue) until a member of the family made the greeting first. Jory Cassel – Ned’s young Sargent at Arms - dismounted and came around to his liege lord’s right side. Carefully, Ned handed down the precious babe to his waiting knight before moving to dismount.

Suddenly there was a murmur behind her, and Catelyn felt a rustle to her left. She looked down to see Jon running towards the Sargent at Arms. She was still too stunned to do anything, but she did feel a moment of worry as the three year old darted right in front of Ned’s proud destrier. But then he was out of danger, looking up at the proud young soldier with a determined look on his face. He tugged on Jory’s sleeve, and the young man, not knowing what else to do, sunk to his knees and presented the baby to her expectant son. Jon peered at the little thing for a moment before a radiant smile broke out on his face – causing his beautiful grey eyes to crinkle into slits of glee.

“My baby!” he proclaimed, bending over to press a kiss on the little girl’s forehead.

Ned, who’d come around from the other side of his horse to watched the spectacle, smiled down warmly at his son.

“Good Man,” he said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. Cat recognized the look in his eyes as the same one of awed love that he’d worn when he first held Jon in his arms.

And that's when Cat realized that the Gods were punishing her for rejecting the spare by forcing her to take in the bastard.


	2. Chapter 2

An uneasy armistice settled over Winterfell as the children grew. Though the sight of the bastard girl filled Cat with jealousy and betrayal she could not get Ned to send her away. Eventually she realized that her continued asking was driving him away, and so she agreed to let the child stay, letting her live in the castle as if she was a ward just below their own children and things settled into a pattern that she could live with.

The babe grew into a wild, grey eyed girl, chasing her older brothers around the keep, sneaking into the yard to watch the men at arms practice, and going off on her own into the forest to fight the monsters and demons of her imagination.

Well, almost on her own. She left alone on her imaginary adventures plenty of times, but somehow Jon was never far behind. Cat supposed the castle household blamed her for refusing to find a suitable mother figure for the child and allowing her to grow wild so, but she suspected that the girl would be a wild thing even with the most loving and attentive guardian chasing after her. And Jon was always there – even when his lessons and training demanded that he be elsewhere, ensuring that she not come to too much harm.

Cat paid little mind to the child until Arya was nearing her tenth year. Then, at a gathering of their bannermen the child had run straight into Greatjon Umber as he was crossing the keep on his way into the castle. Arya had collided with the great man, flown backwards onto the ground, rolled, and run off in the other direction all without missing a beat. The Umber had just laughed, coming into the Great Hall jovially as Cat glared at the girls receding back. She stayed in the yard, trying to decide if it were worth risking her shoes to run after the girl and box her ears for behaving thus in front of guests.  Eventually she decided it wasn't worth the chase, and so Catelyn had come into the Great Hall in time to catch the end of the Umber’s conversation with her husband.

“Spitting image of your sister, Ned if you don’t mind me saying so. Young still but with that fire, _that something_ , that launched a thousand ships. Well you know, I expect better than anyone. With those looks and Cat’s guidance in the ways of Southron ladies I’d be surprised if you managed to hold on to her much past her thirteenth Name Day. Suitors will be beating down your door for her.”

“I hope not. If it were up to me she’d be here forever. I thank the Gods every day that Arya is as wild as a Child of the Forest and that my lady wife has insisted that she not receive any sort of dowry to speak of. Any suitors who came would be scared off in a matter of minutes, and that’s before my sons and I got a hold of them.”

“We’ll see about that. I think once she flowers, if she can pass for a half-way respectable lady, you’ll be saying your good byes far sooner than you expect dowry or no.”

“Gods protect me from such a fate.”

From that day forward Catelyn Stark devoted herself to Arya Snow’s education as a lady.

 

* * *

 

 

At sixteen the familiar walls of Winterfell were starting to feel more like a prison than a comfort to Jon Stark. He loved his family – well his siblings and his father at least – but with each passing day he began to feel more and more that there was no place for him here. He’d figured out about four years ago now why his mother detested him so. Once he realized, he started feeling some pity for the woman.

She wasn’t wrong to see him as a potential threat to Robb’s claim. He felt it, the feeling of being measured against his twin, whenever they were out in the countryside, or when they went with their father to visit their bannermen. The bannermen were kind about it, almost proud of his father for siring four healthy boys, but there was no question that wherever they went there was at least one man who was interested in seeing the Twin Lords of the North stacked up against each other, competing to show Who would make a better warden of the North.

Robb either didn’t see it or didn’t pay it any heed, trusting in his brother and his liegemen to recognize his claim and give deference to it. So it was Jon who had to refuse to spar when they were asked to give demonstrations in front of others, Jon who had to feign disinterest in archery contests or races or and number of games. It wasn’t that he outstripped his brother at everything – he certainly didn’t have half of Robb’s affability or skill when it came to talking to girls – but there were enough contests he could best his brother in that it was best not to enter into open competitions in front of their subjects.

There was one time, when they’d been fourteen and he’d been goaded into it by Theon’s taunts, that Jon had taken his brother to task in the practice field, getting him flat on his back with a series of vicious blows that left his twin bruised and sore the next day. Robb had just laughed when Jon knocked him to the ground, and had reached out a hand for Jon to help him up good-naturedly, but Jon had seen the slight shake of his father’s head at the exhibition and he’d never pushed it in public again.

Really it had been Theon’s fault. Theon Greyjoy was a thorn in his side and had been since the day he’d arrived from Pyke when Jon and Robb were five. Though the boy was only two years their senior he acted like an expert on every subject in the world, with a special limitless pool of knowledge on the subject of all things sexual. Robb loved it – admiring Theon’s experience and reveling in his raunchy stories, but Jon wasn’t a big fan. It’s not that he didn’t like women – Gods how he liked women – it was just that he’d rather not think of women through Theon Greyjoy’s eyes.

So when the Iron born approached him Robb and Arya with his trademark swaggering grin on his face Jon knew instantly that he wanted nothing to do with it. Yesterday had been the boys sixteenth Name Day, and while that night had been filled with formal ceremonies and dinners Jon knew that tonight Theon was determined to take them to the brothels in Winter Town for a night of drunken debauchery.

“Who’s ready to get buried between the legs of some tavern wenches tonight?” he said, not caring that Arya, who was all of thirteen, was standing right there.

“I don’t know Theon—“ Jon began but the Iron Born interrupted him fixing him with a half-mocking half-serious sneer.

“Oh did Robb not tell you? I only have enough gold to pay for us heirs to enjoy the sweetness of Ros’ attentions tonight. Bad luck I’m afraid.”

Arya snorted derisively, and Theon narrowed his eyes at her.  “Something funny?”

“Yes as a matter of fact, something is. Its funny that you think there’s something more desirable about being the heir to some stupid islands in the middle of the sea than to being the second-born son of the Warden of the North. Even if Jon only rules over one of the liege fortresses, he’ll still be in charge of more land than each of your stupid little islands put together.”

That was his girl. And to think, just a minute ago he and Robb had been trying to talk her into going back to her needlework lesson. Robb laughed, and Theon’s eyes flared in anger. He kept his cool though – Greyjoy always did, to his credit – and just shrugged smirking.

“What would you know about it anyway? The only way you’ll ever be able to call yourself mistress of anything, be it a hovel or a castle as grand as Winterfell, is if you earn it, on your back, clutching your ankles above your head, and moaning the name of some lecherous old sod.”

Jon had to stop himself from knocking the Iron born idiot to the ground, and even Robb’s face darkened threateningly. It was the worst kept secret in the castle that their mother was dead set on marrying Arya off to anyone who would have her the second she flowered. The gods had been kind though, and she remained as small and boyish as ever, going around in overlarge tunics and breeches with her hair a mess.  Jon was grateful that for the moment, he didn’t have to face that particular bleak reality. Still, Greyjoy throwing it in Arya's face was cruel and uncalled for.

Arya though, just shrugged, letting the very real jab roll off her shoulder as if it had no hold on her.

“I don’t have any interest in being the mistress of anything,” she said matter-of-factly, “I’d rather be a soldier anyway.”

Theon laughed at that, and Jon assumed he was going to point out the obvious – that as a girl, and a slight girl at that, she had no chance of getting any military leader in their right mind to take take her into his employ – but instead the Iron Born aimed lower. She must’ve really upset him with the jib about the Iron Isles.

“Your bad breeding is showing, Arya Snow. You know what they say about bastards, that they’re all products of lust who can’t be bothered to care about anything but fighting and fucking. Did the Gods give you a double dose of fighting when they made you Arya?”

“Eat shit Greyjoy.”

“No, no... that’s not it. They didn’t forget about the fucking. I know what it is, Snow I can see it written all over your face. You’ve got equal interest in fighting and fucking, but no one wants to fuck you and that’s why you feel the need to fight all the time is that it? You feel the need to strike at anything and everything because you’ve got nothing to tempt a man?”

He didn’t even realize he was doing it, but all of a sudden Jon’s fist crashed into Theon’s jaw. The shock of it knocked the older boy against the wall and Jon was about to follow his first blow with a second when he was distracted by the sound of Arya laughing.

It wasn’t the giggle he’d grown up knowing. No, this laugh – this was the laugh of a _woman_.  Honestly if he hadn't known he would've said that this was the laugh of a woman with a secret - but this was Arya, and secrets held no appeal for her.  Still, her eyes were wet with unshed tears of mirth and she gave the three of them a look of suprisingly feminine amusement before her eyes flitted back to Greyjoy.

“Oh gods, Theon, you know _nothing_ ,” she said, and shoulders still quaking with amusement, she left the three boys staring after her, wondering what in the name of the Gods was so funny.

At Robb’s insistence and after no less than two conciliatory wine skins had been shared at Winterfell, the three boys ended up going into Winter Town. Theon disappeared the second they got into the first brothel, finding Ros and getting a room for the three of them. She began to dance for them, seductively stripping the clothes off her body as they got steadily drunker on the strong tavern Meade Theon had ordered by the barrel.

She was undeniably beautiful, Jon knew, but her auburn lochs reminded him too much of Sansa for him to really get into it. Robb, he saw, had no such difficultly and before long his brother had taken the beautiful tavern wench into a corner. The woman sank to her knees before the heir of Winterfell, and Jon tried not to watch as Robb’s fingers twined into her uncomfortably familiar auburn hair and guided her mouth onto his manhood.

More girls came and joined them, splaying out over him and Theon invitingly, rubbing their palms suggestively over the bulges in their pants. Jon was interested, but unwilling to make a spectacle of himself the way Robb had. Besides, something about paying for the attentions of a woman just seemed pathetic to him, and so after a few hours and a few too many jugs of Meade he convinced his comrades to come back with him to the castle. They stumbled home drunkenly, singing lewd drinking songs the whole way. Despite his differences with Theon he had to admit, it had been a pretty fun night overall.

Somehow he managed to get himself up the steep uneven steps to his room, kicking off his boots and throwing his coat over a chair.  But the second Jon laid down his room began to spin around him. He knew that without having something to eat now, he’d be a wreck the whole next day, and so grudgingly he pushed himself back up off his bed and began to stumble his way back down to the kitchens.

When he got there he saw the flicker of a candle in the back pantry. He smiled, thinking that one of his two drunken companions had experienced the same urgent need for food that he had, and so he pushed the door wide with a grin on his face.

“I told you we should have eaten that—“

The words died in his throat as he gaped disbelievingly at the sight in front of him.

Arya was standing there, naked, scrubbing linens in a large bowl with a bar of soap and some white powder she’d snagged from the pantry wall behind her. Red liquid ran over her hands as she squeezed out the linens out. Not that he needed such overt evidence of what she was hiding by laundering discretely in the middle of the night. No, her naked body told that story clearly enough.

She was a woman flowered. What’s more, she was a _beautiful_ woman flowered. Her breasts, which just earlier that day he would’ve sworn were still the flat planes of a child, were rounded and full, sitting high on her thin frame. With her small stature and tiny waist her full breasts and flaring hips looked especially sinful, as if the Gods ad created her frame for the sole purpose of driving men wild. He understood then why when people told his father she looked like Lyanna the older man’s smile always seemed to hold the shadow of a grimace. Beauty like this was dangerous.

Red ridges from compression bandages marred the beautiful white skin of her chest and rib cage. That, combined with this late night excursion, proclaimed the lengths that she had gone to keep this a secret. As stupid as he knew it was, part of him felt put out somehow by the fact that she’d kept this secret from him too, when he thought they were each other’s confidants in everything. His little wolfling had secrets after all.

As the door creaked open her eyes flew to him, full of anxiety and fear of discovery. He’d seen that look in her eyes a thousand times – when he’d caught her paying a kitchen maid to do her stitching, when he’d found her putting rotten berries in Theon’s shoes – but every other time her eyes had relaxed when she’d realized it was Jon who’d caught her in the act. This time though, she remained tense, though she did nothing to cover herself, and just stared at him, waiting for the ax to fall.

That more than anything upset him, and when he spoke he realized his voice was stern, sounding so much like his father’s that even he was a bit taken aback.

“How long?”

“A year next month.”

A year? Gods how had he been so blind. 

“Arya you could’ve said—“

“I’ve come between you and your mother enough, Jon.”

“But it doesn’t have to be like that—“

“She will send ravens out to suitors the moment she sees blood on my sheets. I know, I’ve seen the scrolls already, all she has left to do is date them.”

His eyes widened, but not in shock at his mother’s audacity, but rather at Arya’s frank summation of her precarious position. He sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing with her since she was right.

“What- what can I do?” he said, his tone softening as he flushed and averted his eyes to the ground for the first time since he’d discovered her. He should’ve looked away long ago – he could feel the tight strain in his trousers the sight of her had caused and he prayed the room was too dark and she was too innocent to notice.

She just smiled and rolled her eyes, giving him the same _womanly_ laughing look he’d seen from her earlier.

“Go back to bed Jon.”

So he did, not knowing what else to do, all thoughts of food completely wiped from his mind. And as he lay awake in bed, waiting for sleep to take him and refusing to acknowledge the aching need in his groin he realized that he knew now what had made her laugh so hard when Theon had accused her of having nothing to tempt a man. Yes he knew now, and he didn’t find it amusing in the least.


	3. Chapter 3

Her life at Winterfell continued on mostly as it always had after Jon found out about her secret. True, he’d become a bit more protective of her than he had been before, and nearly twice as watchful, but most of that could be explained away as the protective behavior of an attentive brother towards a sister of any age. And the stuff that couldn’t… well Arya was fairly sure that most of the people who’d observed those little outbursts were too baffled by Jon’s erratic behavior to spare her much thought.

Like that time she’d been playing ball with Robb and it had devolved into something akin to a play fight. They’d just been kicking a leather ball around the practice yard of the keep, dodging men at arms and members of the castle household as they played keep away with each other. She’d gotten good, playing with Micah the butchers boy and some of the other children from Winterfell, and Robb, who had once had some of the best footwork of anyone she’d ever met, had been flabbergasted to find that she was literally running circles around him.

He’d pushed her good naturedly, and she’d rough housed right back – knocking him away from the ball with her hips before stealing it and racing out into the middle of the court yard. Before she could get far though he’d grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around her torso and pulling her backwards against him laughing. She’d laughed too, and then began to struggle playfully, happy to change the game into a wrestling contest if he was of a mind. She’d bucked against him to free herself and his grip had slipped, pulling her shirt up so that a few inches of her midriff were showing and making it so that his arms now rested entirely over her bound breasts.

“What is that under your—“ Robb had begun, but then, out of nowhere Jon was there wrenching her out of Robb’s arms and placing her firmly back on her feet, tugging her shirt down as he went. He was glaring at Robb, and Robb was looking back at him, bewildered at his twin’s harsh reaction. People all around the yard were watching them now, curious to see the two brothers who were never at odds seemingly fighting over the treatment of their bastard sister.

Jon realized it to, and somehow managed to recover instantly, his face softening.

“Sorry I just know that Maester Lewlin will kill me if she gets hurt further. She cracked a rib two weeks back getting thrown by that new gelding Father just brought back from the Reach. She should still be laid out in bed but she somehow convinced Maester Lewlin that with me watching over her she’d be sure to take it easy. I’m sure you can guess how well that’s working out.”

Robb nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. He couldn’t remember hearing about her getting thrown from her horse, but then again unless something really drastic happened he was never all that concerned with his younger siblings affairs.

Robb had let it go though, and she’d been more careful. She knew the secret couldn’t be kept forever – she’d just passed her fourteenth name day after all, and if she didn’t flower soon there was a chance Catelyn would have he examined by a Maester or a High Septa. Still, she likely had a good few months left before it came to _that._ With the King coming to Winterfell in a fortnight, Catelyn Stark had bigger things to worry about than Arya Snow’s courses.

The whole castle was a buzz of activity in preparation for the arrival of the King and his retinue. She was doing her best to simply stay out of the way, which typically involved leaving the castle grounds early in the day and not coming back until near supper time.

One day she’d been about to head out, passing Jon, Robb and Theon on her way out, when she heard a commotion coming from her window overhead. She’d stopped to peer up at the open window – making sure she wasn’t just hearing things. Why were people in her bedroom?

She glanced over at Jon, asking him in the wordless way they did if he knew why there were people in her room. Theon, who’d been with the Stark children for long enough to read their silent communications, laughed at the sight of them and came swaggering over closer.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know Snow?”

“Know what Greyjoy?”

He beamed triumphantly, happy to know something that she didn’t but she needed to know so she waited, as patiently as she could manage, for him to tell her what he was about.

“They have to make room for the guests Snow. The _noble_ guests. When Lady Stark realized that your father had planned on having Bran and Rickon share a room she had a fit. So she’s having your things moved down to the women quarters—“

He kept speaking but she was already gone, flying back into the castle and up the stairs to the tower. She could hear Jon and Robb calling after her but she wasn’t going to stop.  She also wasn't going to do what they thought she was - she had no interest in arguing with Lady Stark ovr being relocated. She was fine with sharing quarters with the other women of the house but it was people moving her stuff that worried her. She couldn’t let them find her secret things…

She clambered onto the third floor landing where her room was and jogged down the hall to see the door to her room ajar. She couldn’t hear any commotion in the room, and she thought momentarily that maybe they’d been called away to help with some other part of the endless list of preparations. Or maybe her step-mother wasn’t going to be forcing her to give up her room after all…

But as she pushed into her room she knew she’d been caught. Standing there, speaking in a low voice with the servant girl who’d been assigned to packing up her things was Catelyn Stark.  Spread out on the bed were the bindings she used for her breasts and the squares of fabric she’d set aside for her next round of courses. There was nothing particularly telling about any of the objects, and had her step-mother been a less shrewd-minded woman she could’ve easily explained them both away, but when Catelyn’s eyes locked on hers, burning with fury she just knew.

Her secret was out.

* * *

 

 

“I think she stole something, is what I think. It makes the most sense.”

“No that doesn’t make any sense. What would she steal? It’s Arya – she doesn’t want anything other than weapons and a horse, and the last time I checked she had all the access to weapons she could ever want, and her room was far too small to hide a horse in. Stealing just doesn’t make sense.”

“Well what is it then, if you know so much?”

Jon listened to Theon and Robb bicker back and forth about what Arya had done without contributing. He was burning to see her. It had been three days since she’d found out there were people rummaging through her room and had gone sprinting back up into the castle, and since then they hadn’t seen any sign of her. They knew that she was in trouble, Sansa said she was being kept in their mother’s solar all day, and they knew that Ned had called her into his study for a talking to the night before which had ended up dragging on for hours. When Jon had seen his father next he’d looked grave, clearly upset by _whatever_ was going on with his youngest daughter.

He hadn’t yet seen the ravens go out so he was holding onto the hope that it was something else, something childish and stupid that they would laugh about in a few days’ time, but part of him just knew, knew that something had changed.

He still didn’t understand why, even if they had discovered that she’d flowered, that she had to be cloistered off the way she was. On the evening of the fourth day when she didn’t show up in the great hall again for dinner he finally cornered Sansa and demanded an explanation.

“I know that you are refusing to talk about what it is that has gotten Arya into so much trouble, but can you at least tell me why it is she’s being kept from meals? Surely nothing she could’ve done is bad enough to warrant not feeding her for half a week.”

Sansa glanced nervously in the direction of their parents before answering.

“She’s not being kept from meals. She’s choosing not to come. Mother is insisting after – after what was discovered – that she only appear in public according to Mother's specifications from now on. Mother had all of her clothes that didn’t comply with her edict given away or burned. She’s been cooped up every day - we all have by the way - making new clothes that mother approves of. As for meals - Arya’s not being kept locked away, she’s just refusing to come out.”

He nodded, his suspicions confirmed and Sansa gave him a small smile. “It will all work itself out tomorrow. She will have to be present when the King and his party arrives. Mother and Father aren’t giving her any choice in the matter.”

He nodded again thanking her and went off, down the corridor to seek his room. Whatever scheme his mother had come up with to rid herself of Arya Snow, he’d find out tomorrow.

The morning was a grey and chilly one, but that didn’t stop them all from being lined up in the court yard an hour early with his mother fussing over them and arranging them in order of importance to be presented to the King. The court yard was filled with people, all the members of the household dressed in their finest, and all of their Bannermen who happened to be staying in Winterfell the time. He kept scanning the crowd for Arya but he didn’t catch sight of her anywhere. He was starting to think that Sansa had been wrong after all, or that Arya had won whatever battle of wills she was currently waging with their mother and that she was even now sitting away in her room stubbornly refusing to come down.

“Sweet Mother have Mercy – when did Jory take a wife?”

He looked over at his twin who was staring across the court yard to where Ser Rodrik and Jory stood huddled almost protectively around a beautiful young woman. She was gripping Jory’s arm for support as she came forward with the two Cassel’s to take their place in the reception line.

She was wearing a dark grey dress, fitted to perfection around her small but curvaceous frame. The dress was cut in an outdated but extremely flattering style, with a low square neckline trimmed with a black and white pattern that he couldn’t quite make out. The cut of the dress showed off her ample bosom, even from the side angle that they were viewing her from. Her skin was the color of rich cream, and her dark ash brown hair was pulled away from her face in a half up style that still left plenty of it down and cascading down her back in curls.

They couldn’t see her face from where they were standing but Jon felt as if a cold hand had closed around her heart. He was being ridiculous, it couldn’t be her…

“Oh Gods.” He heard Robb exclaim next to him when Jory and the girl turned to face them. Her eyes were lined in kohl, and her lips had been coated in an all too suggestive raspberry colored balm, but there was no question that the girl of Jory’s arm was his Arya. From the front her womanly figure was all the more apparent, with full cream-colored breasts orbing up invitingly out of her dress.

She looked absolutely riveting, and absolutely miserable.

“Did you know?” Robb breathed next to him, as more and more people around the courtyard started to take note of their little sister.

Jon was spared from having to answer by the arrival of their father. Ned Stark came striding out of the castle then, dressed in his finest furs and prepared to welcome his friend and king when he spotted Arya and stopped dead in his tracks. Jon couldn’t remember ever seeing his father go white like that before, almost as if he was afraid.  Jon was even more alarmed when his face transformed into a look of fury. Arya, never one to back away from a fight, looked taken aback by their father’s reaction as well, but then quickly narrowed her eyes in indignant response. But Ned’s anger was not for her - instead he rounded on their mother in a way Jon had never seen in his entire life.

“You have gone too far this time Cat,” he said in a low and dangerous voice, then turning to two of the serving maids he said, “You two – go take Mistress Arya to her chambers to change. Now.”

The servants were scuttling over to a very confused looking Arya preparing to take her upstairs when Cat’s voice rang out.

“Sera, Elisa leave Mistress Snow as she is. The King will be arriving any minute now and I will not have us dishonor him and the other guests by not presenting the entire household to greet him.”

Jon, along with everybody else in the courtyard stared at his parents. Ned and Catelyn Stark did not fight, and they certainly did not fight in front of others. Ned fumed down at his wife for a moment looking almost as if he wanted to strike the woman. Jon knew he’d be well within his rights as a husband to do so, especially for overruling him in front of his household, but he hoped he didn’t. He bore little love for his mother, but the idea of her brought low in front of all these people still made his heart clench. Catelyn Stark was a proud woman, and that shame would cut her to the bone. Besides, there’s no question that afterwards her treatment of Arya would only get worse.

Ned didn’t strike her though, but instead broke the glare by turning and striding over to Arya himself and taking her arm roughly from a bewildered and utterly petrified Jory. He looked down at her and she looked up at him confusion and hurt playing across her face. Then Ned turned back to his wife glaring.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Cat. I expected better of you, I didn’t realize you were willing to let your anger at me justify bringing harm to my child. I agreed she could be presented, I agreed you could dress her like a proper lady, but for you to go and style her to be the exact replica of—“

“The King is here!” A rider came cantering through the gates at that very moment interrupting his parents and preventing Ned from leading Arya anywhere. Just after the herald arrived another man, huge and dressed in all finery with a crown of antlers on his head came charging in behind him, laughing and panting with the effort.

“Eddard you old bastard come here! I’ve missed you more than I care to say!” the man cried out jovially.

“King Robert of the House Baratheon! Long may he Reign!” the herald cried, attempting to do his duty and restore some of the formality of the occasion as the fat man made to dismount. Though he was bowed low, Jon still watched their father from the corner of his eye. He had detached himself from Arya the second the herald came in, placing her back between Ser Rodrik and Jory with a look that seemed to ask them both something that Jon couldn’t quite understand. He still hadn’t had time to come over and stand in his proper place before Robert had arrived, which meant that Cat was alone at the head of the family. Jon could only imagine how much that irked her. He still didn’t understand why exactly his father was so furious with his mother, Arya looked magnificent after all, but he had a feeling that whatever the reason was he’d likely side with his father.

“It’s good to see you my King!” Ned said, smiling and walking over to hold the bridle of his friend’s horse as the other man dismounted. The two embraced when Robert was on the ground and then began to walk around towards their family.

“That’s quite a family you’ve got there Ned! Strong, good-looking, twin heirs, only you could be so lucky, eh? Although don’t think I didn’t notice you over by the household when I first rode in leaving poor Cat to stand on her own. Tending to the mistress right before the King arrives! That’s bold – even for me! Never thought you had it in you, but I suppose times change. Now which one—“

The words died in the King’s throat as he stopped only feet from them to stare at Arya. Breaking all measures of decorum, he strode over to Arya, without greeting any of them, and cupped a great hand around her face, staring into her eyes with an intimate intensity that shocked Jon and almost had him running across the keep to wrench the King away from his baby sister. What in Seven Hells was going on?

“Lyanna…” the King breathed, still standing over Arya, blocking her from their view. Next to him Robb was stiff as a board, thrumming with the same nervous energy that was racing through Jon’s veins. And then he knew why his father had been so furious on seeing her. And he knew why his mother had taken the time to sew a new dress in an old style. And he knew, even as his father detached the King from Arya, naming her as his own and bringing the King back over to greet the family, that Robert Baratheon’s piercing blue eyes were constantly straying back to watch her every move, and that Arya Snow was in trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for all the support! It means a lot to me! I totally get where many of you are coming from with your hesitation at a tureborn Jon/ bastard Arya AU, and I'm glad you seem to be enjoying it anyway! I'm just really enjoying teasing out the idea of what dangers a beautiful bastard-ette might face in Westeros and I hope you guys like this next twist... :-)

 

Dinner in the great hall was more agonizing than any meal she’d ever been through. Every time she looked up from her plate she caught a new pair of eyes staring at her. Most of them were men – the ones from the King’s party often leering suggestively, the ones from Winterfell giving her a strange mix of sexual interest, bewilderment, wariness and in some cases betrayal. When she caught Robb’s eyes burning into her from the main table he’d been looking at her like she’d grown a second head. When their eyes met his contained something that wasn’t anger per se, but definitely contained a tightness, a degree of somberness that she rarely saw in her eldest sibling.

When the meal was finished she’d gotten up to leave almost instantly, but the booming voice of Robert Baratheon had stopped her in her tracks.

“Will you not stay for the dancing, Arya Snow? If memory serves your aunt used to be a beautiful dancer.”

The whole room’s eyes locked on her then. There was nothing she could do but stay where she was while the musicians struck up a tune, and then allow herself to be led out onto the dance floor by a member of the King’s retinue. She danced the first song with Ser Meryn, a member of the King’s Guard who had been leering at her all night. While they danced she noticed that his eyes seemed to linger more on her thin forearms and wrists than on her breasts like the other men in the room. What's more, throughout the dance he held her hand at such an angle that she was constantly uncomfortable, almost in real pain at times, and constantly aware of how easy it would be for him to snap her wrist in an instant, should he chose. She knew it was strange, but part of her felt that he knew what he was doing, and seemed to take some sort of pleasure in it. Maybe he just didn’t like bastards.

Jon rescued her for the second dance, which was a shock given how much she knew he hated dancing of any kind. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until she started to feel herself relax in his arms, letting him guide her through the dance without thinking. He was good despite his distaste for the activity, and she found she liked the way he held her slightly closer than was necessary, shielding her from others with his strong arm resting against her back. Throughout the dance he scanned the floor, eyes wary, as if he were expecting a fight to break out any minute. But every thirty seconds or so, his eyes would flit down to her, more stormy than his usual slate grey, filled with the love she was used to but clouded over with a concern, a protectiveness, that she’d only recently begun to see.

Too soon their dance was over, and a large hand clapped onto her back, making Jon’s eye’s fly up and sharpen momentarily before going utterly blank. She turned to see the King, cheeks ruddy with drink, leering down at her with a suggestive glint in his eyes. There was nothing Jon could do though but hand her off, leaving her with one last tortured look before retaking his seat at the main table. She could see her father, seated only four seats away from Jon his face grave and locked on her and the King.

Robert began to lead her, swaying drunkenly as he went, and pulling her flush against his body despite the semi-conservative steps of the dance. His fingers began to draw circles on her back idly, in what she guessed must be meant as an erotic gesture, but which instead made her skin crawl. He turned her in time with the music though, and she had a brief moment of respite before he pulled her back into his body. This time, instead of resting on her back where it belonged, his right arm came to rest on the curve of her butt, fingers flexing appreciatively into the soft rounded flesh they found there. Fury momentarily overcoming her better judgement, she did the only thing she could think of to interrupt his hands steady exploration - and stomped directly onto his foot. He stumbled, clearly not expecting the attack, and she used it as an excuse to break from his grip, looking up at him with mock horror on her face.

“Oh your Grace I am so sorry, please allow me to beg your pardon. I- I fear I’ve had little instruction in the art of dance and I’ve had far too much to drink this night. Please allow me to remove myself from your presence so that you may have the pleasure of a partner worthy of your skill.”

And with that, not waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and fled the room, the sound of Robert’s booming, jovial laugh filling her ears as she went. She went straight to the Godswood, clambering up into the trees as she hadn’t since she was a small child. It was one of the few things that her father had ever scolded her for himself – rather than at the bidding of someone else – and for that reason it had stuck in her mind as a rule she ought not to break again.

 _The Godswood is a sacred place Arya_ , he’d told her, _you are always welcome here but it is not a place for games. The Gods have given you other trees to climb. Leave theirs be, unless you mean to get their attention._

But tonight it seemed like the right place to go, somewhere the Southron idiots wouldn’t dare come looking, somewhere she could be alone without having to deal with all the bloody stares.

She stayed there in the trees for an hour at least, her breath coming out in puffs of cloudy vapor before her. She liked the cold, she’d never been one to let such a small thing as the weather get her down. But there were limits even to her tolerance, and as the night wore on she became shivers began to wrack her body. She wished she’d taken the time to grab a cloak, but the only thing that had been on her mind at the time had been getting out, and so she sat there, shivering in naught but her gown, until her stubbornness began to ebb. It was nearing midnight now anyway, surely she could make her way back to the shared women’s chamber without being seen.

She got as far as the corridor her room was on before a door opened up and a man staggered out, the sound of feminine giggles in his wake.  He began to meander shakily down the hall towards her. In the narrow passage there was nowhere to hide, and she was bracing herself for another unpleasant encounter with one of the men from King’s Landing, when the man walked beneath the wavering light of one of the torches mounted on the wall and she was able to make out his features.

It was Theon. She rolled her eyes with exasperation as the Iron Born caught sight of her and beamed drunkenly, clearly thrilled at discovering her.

“Well if it isn’t the lady of the hour! I must say, it gave me quite the shock earlier when I realized the fuckable little wench with Jory was the same castle bastard that’d been following Robb and I around all these years. If I had known you’d been hiding tits like those underneath your tunic I would’ve been more amenable to giving you those sword play lessons you keep begging for.”

“Fuck off Theon,” she said angrily, pushing past him and making a bee line for her temporary room.

“I was only kidding, Snow—wait there’s something I really should tell you.”

She kept walking. She’d put up with more than enough tonight without falling for Theon Greyjoy and his stupid antics.

“Wait! Arya!” His use of her name made her pause. Theon Greyjoy never used her given name unless it was to call her ‘Arya Underfoot’ or ‘Arya Horseface,’ and the sound of spoken non-contemptuously from his lips sounded almost foreign. She turned back around to see him jogging down the corridor after her. His sarcastic smirk was gone, replaced with a look that was somewhere in between pity and embarrassment. Still not convinced this wasn’t another one of his tricks – albeit a more elaborate one than was typical – she crossed her arms in front of her chest protectively and glared up at him.

“What, Greyjoy?” she asked, her voice ripe with exasperation.

“I actually came down here to warn you.”

From his tone, she almost believed him. Everything about this was odd.

“Warn me of what?”

“At the banquet after your dramatic exit-some of the King’s men were asking… were asking where you would be sleeping tonight… in case his Grace should endeavor to visit you.”

She felt sick all of a sudden, but still not willing to believe that such a thing was happening – with a man, a King, twice her age, and under her father’s own roof! – she narrowed her eyes at Theon again.

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

“I know, because they asked _me_ , Snow.” He said matter-of-factly. She glared at him and he quickly added, “I didn’t tell them! Gods I don’t dislike you that much Snow, relax. But the point is, _someone_ will have told them, and so unless you’re willing to accept the King’s ah… advances, you’d be best served if you just found someplace else to sleep.”

She nodded, shocked but grateful for Theon’s unexpected assistance. “I will. Thank you, Theon.”

He gave her a quick nod, and turned to leave. Before he’d gone more than two steps though, he turned back, looking as if he had something more to say. She gazed at him quizzically.

“Just… just don’t tell Robb what I told you, will you? There’s nothing he can do, not if the King wants you, but it doesn’t mean he won’t try. You and I get it, not being able to have your way even when you’re right – that’s the life of a ward and the life of a bastard. But he – he’s not learned that lesson. I’d prefer if Robert Baratheon wasn’t the one to teach it to him if it’s all the same to you. I’ve seen what the King’s lessons look like before,” he said, his eyes darkening, “and it was more than enough for one lifetime.”

She nodded again, not knowing what to say, and then fled down the hallway back the way she came. She didn’t know where she would go – she’d been banished from her rooms and placed in the group room precisely because there were no rooms to spare, but she knew she couldn’t stay there. She wound her way up through the castle, careful to take corridors which would be less traveled by guests, her mind abuzz with all that had happened over the course of the day. She didn’t even realize where she was going until she stopped before the great oaken door, more breathless than she ought to be for only having climbed three flights of stairs. She was about to knock but stopped herself – nothing was more likely than to draw the people in the surrounding rooms into the corridor than the sound of a knock echoing through the empty passage, and so instead she just turned the handle, telling herself that permission once given should still stand.

At the opening of the door the room’s only occupant say up in bed, dark curls flying with the sudden movement as he was jerked out of his doze. Despite the chill of the night, he was naked from the waist up, and she had the sudden absurd urge to flee in embarrassment at her presumptuous entrance. For some reason, his bedroom seemed more private now than it had in years past.

Still, the threat from the King was a real one, and this was merely the stupid shyness that she found herself feeling more and more with age – making her fear sometimes that she was turning into Sansa. He would understand, and he would want her here. So with that in mind she shut the door behind herself definitively and looked her best friend in the world in the eye.

“Jon. Can I sleep here tonight?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been so so long! I've just gotten back into writing with A Mother Cannot Be No One, and I decided I'd try to use the long weekend to revive some of my other stories from the summer! Hope you enjoy!

Jon

 

He should’ve known it was her – who else would come into his bedroom at this hour of the night without knocking? – but still, the sight of her standing there, leaning against his closed bedroom door breathless, shocked him. Maybe it wasn’t the sight of her per se, but rather his reaction to the sight, the sharp bolt of desire that had shot through him, that had stunned him so much it had rendered him temporarily mute.

“Jon?” her voice waivered slightly with question and he realized he’d never answered her.

_Can I sleep here tonight?_

Gods, what a question.

“Arya what- what are you doing here?”

It was a stupid response since she’d made that pretty clear, but for the moment it was all he could manage.

“I can’t sleep in the women’s quarters.”

“Why not?”

She made an exasperated face at that and looked away, stopping her foot in frustration.

“I just can’t, alright Jon? Can I sleep here or not?”

“Arya,” he said, running his hands through his already tousled hair, “it’s not that simple. We’re not… people don’t see us as children anymore.”

She gave a derisive snort at that and rolled her eyes. “I’m well aware of that Jon. I think it’s pretty obvious what people see me as after today, gods even _Theon_ was different. Why do you think I’m here in the first place?”

He was out of bed before he knew what he was doing and was standing right in front of her staring down at her, with anger pulsing through his veins. _What did she mean Theon was different?_

“How was Theon different? What’d he do?”

If Greyjoy had made a move on her he’d have his balls. It would be so typical of him to spend years shitting on Arya and then immediately feign interest in her the second she flowered.

She waived her hand dismissively, “nothing, nothing, he was just nice, for once. I think he felt bad for me, actually. It was weird. But no, he actually warned me that I should sleep somewhere else tonight. I don’t know maybe it was just a joke, but I don’t think so.”

He should’ve felt relieved, but for some reason something about the forced lightness in her voice made him worry more. Theon at least he could deal with.

“Warned you of what?”

She sighed, clearly not wanting to talk about it anymore than they already had. Although she shot him a look that tried to say as much, he thought he saw a glimpse of something like nervousness in her eyes. It troubled him more than he could say.

“The- the King has been asking where I sleep,” she said, looking down. Rage washed over him. It was bad enough that Robert had been so lecherous during the dancing but Jon had never thought… Gods and he was supposed to be his father’s best friend. His hands clenched impulsively at the thought of the King’s hands roaming over her body earlier, the urge to strike the sovereign in the jaw flooding his brain, and his grip tightened on her shoulder. She looked up at him sharply eyes fierce.

“If he so much as—“ he began furiously, but she interrupted him.

“Jon – stop it. It doesn’t matter. I just need a place to sleep. Can I stay here or not?”

He was in no mood to let it go, not when she was so clearly in danger, but he could tell from the look she was giving him that him pressing the matter was not going to help, so instead he just ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation and sighed.

“Yes, of course.”

She smiled at him then, brightening as if his simple acquiescence had solved everything. She brushed past him making for the bed, hands tugging at the bindings of her dress absently as she kicked off her shoes.

“Gods it feels so good to get those off, I don’t know why your mother insisted on me wearing shoes with raised heels, it’s not as if I could ever trick anyone into thinking I’m tall even with the extra two inches.”

Her fingers finally untied the knot at the back of her neck and before he knew what she was doing her gown was off, pooled around her feet and she was standing there in nothing but her slip and girdle.

“Arya! What are you doing?” He said hoarsely. The sight of her, in something so intimate, with her breasts pushed up invitingly, sent another jolt of energy going unmistakably to his groin. He was the world’s worst brother.

She looked at him as if he was very very slow.

“Getting ready for bed—help me with the lacings on this girdle? I can never get it off on my own.”

He stared at her stupidly for a moment but she just stared right back, giving him a look that made it clear she thought he was either going deaf or had taken too many blows to the head on the practice field. So he sighed, shoving aside the voice inside him that was screaming about propriety, and went to stand behind her. His hands trembled as he undid her lacings, his stupidly thick fingers coming to tug along her spine.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly as the girdle fell to the floor.

The shift she wore under it – the only thing she had left covering her body save her small clothes – had a low neck to accommodate the suggestive cut of the gown, meaning that with the girdle off it slipped dangerously down to bare her right shoulder. Jon gulped, hating himself for being so effected by the sight of her, and clambered into bed, thinking stupidly that if he took his place on the far end of the four-poster he might be able to just slip off into sleep without being affected any further by his bedmate’s presence.

Arya, seemingly unaffected, bounded in after him, scooting over next to him and hugging him across the torso.

“Mmm I should’ve done this regardless. Your bed is heaven,” she said, closing her eyes in mock ecstasy and burrowing under the covers.

He let out a grunt of agreement and turned to face the wall, unable to think of a better way to deal with the awkwardness of what her presence was doing to him. She shifted around a bit more, finding a comfortable position and then settled in with a sigh.

She was quiet, quiet enough that he thought she might be dozing off, and yet he found that even the soft sound of her exhaling kept sending jolts of awareness down his spine. He truly didn’t know what was wrong with him, he’d never felt this affected by anyone’s presence, or at least not for this long. As gently as he could, he turned to face her again, studying her face in the soft semi-darkness of the room.

She’d always been beautiful to his eyes. Sure Theon, Sansa and Jeyne Poole had mocked her thin face cruelly, but to him her elongated features had always looked more like the pictures of the legendary Children of the Forest of old than anything else. Now looking at her lying there, her chestnut curls splayed out over his pillows, and her long dark lashes resting against her milky white skin, she was undeniably breathtaking to behold.

As he studied her, her eyes flew open locking him in their pewter gaze. He knew he should turn back over and try to get some rest, but something prevented him from breaking the connection, so he just lay there peering back at her. She propped herself up on one elbow, closing some of the distance between their faces. Her expression was troubled, and he could tell from the way she was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth that she had something she wanted to say.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“What if he doesn’t stop? I cannot hide from the king forever.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that. I’m not stupid. I know how it works with bastards.”

His stomach tightened at the thought. She was right to be afraid.   The truth of the matter was, with her being a bastard Robert could very well just demand that she be brought to his chambers, and their father would have to either acquiesce or risk insulting the King.

“Then we’ll leave. We’ll leave before he can get to you.”

She looked at him skeptically, “Jon you’re second in line to rule the North…”

“I mean it, Arya. If it persists just tell me when.”

She looked him over one more time, as if she were trying to decide if he were serious or not. Then, seeming to make up her mind in the affirmative she cuddled closer, so their faces were barely a hairsbreadth apart and whispered.

“Alright.”

And that’s when she kissed him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! So happy to be getting back to this story - I love it and I've got some creative ideas about where to go with it so I'm happy to be writing again. Sorry for the wait, and as always please please let me know what you think! Everyone's feedback is much appreciated!

Arya’s kiss was soft and questioning, more tentative than he would have thought she was capable of being.  At first he was too surprised to do anything but sit there frozen, but as she began to pull away dejectedly something deep, almost subconscious in him spurred him into action, and he kissed her back – leaning into her until she was on her back being pressed into the mattress by the passion of the kiss.

He didn’t know what made him do it, all he knew was that he couldn’t let her pull away thinking that he didn’t want her kiss.  She needed to know – needed to _feel_ – how much he wanted it. It was important somehow, though his brain was too clouded with the fog of lust and adrenaline to sort out why just now.

Her mouth opened in surprise, and without thinking he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with hers.  The move must have surprised her, because she made a startled mewing sound and her arms flew up to grip his shoulders.  But rather than pushing him away when they got there, she clung to him her nails digging in lightly as her tongue mirrored his.  The beast within him roared with victory and he let her tug him even further into the embrace, pressing his body flush against hers.

At the contact she convulsed, her whole body stiffening in an unmistakable jolt of surprise, and the magic of the moment was broken.  He pulled away from her, mortified at what he had done, at what he _would have_ done had her shocked innocence not brought him to his senses. He still felt dazed by the desire rushing violently through his mind, but even in his state he noticed Arya’s eyes rake downwards towards his rock hard manhood as he pulled away. 

“I’m fine!” she said in protest as he pulled away, breathing heavily and retreating to the farthest corner of his bed, “don’t stop I was just surprised is all.  I didn’t realize it got like _that_ all on its own is all… when I saw Jeyne Poole and the Karstark man last summer his didn’t get like this until she…”

“Arya!” Jon ground out, not sure that his heart could take her giving him a play by play of her voyeuristic discoveries while he was clinging to sanity as it was.

“Please…please forgive me… that should not have happened,” he said still breathing heavily. 

“Don’t be stupid, I was the one who kissed you, why should you apologize?  Besides, I don’t regret it, I thought it felt quite nice.  Not at all like what Sansa has described…” she looked off into the distance momentarily, as if replaying a conversation with her prim half-sister in her head, and then shook herself.  “Lets do it again! I had no idea people actually put their tongues—“

“We can never do that again,” he said sounding so stern he could have passed for Lord Stark himself.

“Gods Jon there’s no need to get so upset—“

“Never, Arya! These are not even things you should be thinking about, let alone doing with me.” He knew his voice still sounded unusually cold and stern, but he couldn’t help it.  Whatever that had been it needed to be buried completely. Still, it pained him to see the look of hurt on her face as she recoiled slightly from him.

“Ok,” she said faintly, seeming suddenly unlike herself, and turning to face away from him, “But you’re being stupid.  Just because you say I can’t learn from you, doesn’t someone else won’t show me whether I want it or not.  If the King had his way I’d be _learning_ right now.”

The bitter truth of it cut him to the core, and in spite of himself he reached out and took her arm, so that she turned back to look at him, her eyes swimming with a mixture of rage and self-consciousness.

“I won’t let him touch you.” He said seriously, but she just rolled her eyes and turned away.

“You can’t say that Jon you know if he—“

“Arya. I will kill him if he tries.”

He hadn’t planned on saying it, but as the words left his lips he knew that it was true.  If it came down to it, he would commit the highest treason in the land to save her from Robert Baratheon’s lechery.

“Don’t be stupid—“

“I will, Arya, believe it.”

She looked back at him, but not with the look of childish hopefulness that he was expecting.  Instead her eyes, which had always seemed open and familiar to him, seemed to hold something back, as if some part of her that he did not know was now reserved and closed off from even him.  He found that someone he hated it and it held him transfixed all at the same time, and for a moment they just laid there, curled up in their separate sides of the bed staring across the empty space between them, like opposing armies before a battle, waiting for the other side to give away a sign of their intentions. And then she sighed and looked down, and the moment was broken.  She turned back to face away from him once more and mumbled “go to bed Jon.”

For long afterwards he lay there awake, watching her thin frame rise and fall as her breathing deepened and she fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.  He had to resist the temptation to shake her awake – to reiterate to her both that he would kill the King if he touched her, and that they must never ever go down the road they’d taken this night again.  But there was nothing else that needed saying – she’d been annoyed with him but she hadn’t fought him on them never going _there_ again, much to his surprise.  And as to her believing that he’d keep her from falling victim to the King… well she hadn’t actually responded to that but the look she gave him told him that she’d at least heard him which for now was enough…

* * *

 

 

He woke just as the first rays of sunshine were shining through his heavy woolen curtains.  His first thought was that the fact that they were closed was odd – he usually left them open so that he rose with the sun – but then he remembered Arya and he smiled in amusement at the idea of his sleep-loving sister rising in the middle of the night to try to put off rising for as long as possible. 

He turned, expecting to see her sprawled out next to him, her riot of dark curls spilling over the pillows, but the bed was empty.  He sat up, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes and looking around.  He should be glad she was up and out so early – it might look odd otherwise had she been seen leaving his bedchamber in the early morning, and yet, for some reason he felt as if alarm bells were going off in his mind.  Something was wrong.

His eyes flitted around the room searching for a something that would confirm or dispel the feeling of foreboding that had settled upon his chest like a physical burden.  His eyes fixed onto the wardrobe in the corner of his room, which stood with one door slightly ajar.  It wasn’t much – most teen boys did far worse than failing to fasten shut their cabinet doors – but Jon was always slightly more attentive to the way he left his things than his other siblings, and he only used that particular wardrobe to store things he no longer used, so he leapt to his feet and crossed the room, wrenching the door open and looking inside.

As he did, one long, ash brown curl spilled out of the wardrobe and floated eerily to the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon

 

He stood there for a moment – temporarily frozen by what was in front of him. Coiled in a pile at the base of the wardrobe were Arya’s chestnut tresses.  He stared at the haphazard pile of discarded curls in disbelief for a moment, before letting his eyes flit over the other contents of the wardrobe.  These too, were off – it was clear Arya had ruffled through his piles of tunics and brays – searching for something...   

_Oh Gods had she…_

He slammed shut the wardrobe in frustration and saw, just as he did so, a scrap of parchment resting on the table near the door.  He snatched it up, his heart in his throat, and began to read.

_Jon –_

_I can’t ask you to leave, but I can’t stay either._

_I can’t sit around waiting for you to jump in and defend me and get yourself killed._

_Even after he leaves, there’s no life for me at Winterfell any longer – I will NOT be sold off to the highest bidder.   I’ll be fine – I’ve borrowed some of your old clothes and things that I’ll need on my journey.  I also took your old practice sword – I know you’d say that I never took the time to learn how to use it properly – but how hard can it be? If someone comes at me I’ll just stick them with the pointy end…_

_Please don’t come after me. I’ll send you a Raven when I can._

_Arya_

He’s known it from the second he realized she was gone, but seeing it written out still struck him like a physical force.  He read it over once more before springing into action and hurdling out of his room.

She couldn’t have gotten that far – from the looks of it, it wasn’t more than an hour past dawn.  That meant that at the most she would have had to have left sometime in the last four hours.  If they went out now to look…

Without him even being conscious of it he found himself flying down the corridor to Robb’s room. Robb typically slept in whenever he could get away with it, and was probably asleep, but that wouldn’t matter once he heard why Jon was seeking him out.  Jon knew his twin would help him…

He threw open the door to Robb’s room with a bang, flooding the dark room with light from the corridor outside.

“She’s gone—“

He froze and the words died in his through as he took in the sight in front him. Sprawled out asleep in the same bed were Robb and Theon, their bare torsos peeking out from the furs covering Robb’s four-poster bed.  He’d forgotten that Theon has moved in to Robb’s room while the King’s entourage was visiting, but even with that the pallet that had been laid out for the heir to the Iron Isles stood unused in the corner. 

As the door banged against the wall Robb jumped up in shock. Beside him, Theon jerked awake and reached for his dagger reflexively.  As they moved out from under the bedcoverings it became clear that they both had their small clothes on, but still, Jon got the impression he had intruded on something exceedingly intimate.  Without stopping to think, he slammed the door behind him, suddenly fearful of what might happen if someone passed along the corridor behind him.

The fearful look in Robb’s eyes faded as the door closed, and he gave Jon a barely perceptible nod, telling him that for once Jon would have to take the lead in crafting the conversation. Under any other circumstances he would have turned on his heel, left the room, and never mentioned it to either his twin or the Ironborn ever again.  But Arya was gone – and he could not afford to wait.

“She’s gone.  Arya is gone.”

Though a red blush had begun to spread across Robb’s chest, at Jon’s words his face seemed to go pale. Still, he peered at his brother curiously.

“Are you sure? She might just have gone out early – I doubt she was too keen on being around the King with how he was towards her last night.”

“She’s left Robb.  She left a note.”

Robb’s eyes widened as he raked his hands through his hair.

“Left a note where?”  The question came from Theon, who had been uncharacteristically silent wile pulling on his clothes.  He was deathly pale but seemed to be taking Jon’s anxiety over Arya seriously at least.

“In my chambers. She said you warned her that the King’s men were looking for her in the women’s quarters.” 

His voice was neutral enough, but he couldn’t help the creeping blush from moving up his neck. Robb’s eyes widened slightly, but if he thought that things seemed beyond the pale, he said nothing. 

“There’s something else,” Jon said faintly, knowing that he had to tell them but feeling loathe to reveal how much irreparable damage had been done.  Even if they did find her, there would be no hiding the fact that she’d chopped all her hair off.  And if they didn’t… well, a scrawny teenage boy would garner far less notice than the budding beauty they’d seen last night. 

Robb looked expectantly at him, and grudgingly John continued. 

“I think she’s dressed as a young boy.  Some of my clothes are missing… and I found locks of her hair at the bottom of my wardrobe.”

Robb rubbed his forehead, letting it sink in. 

“Well… there’s nothing else for it then.”

Jon looked at his twin hopefully.

“Let’s go find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter guys, but I wanted to introduce the twist without packing too much in. Let me know what you think!!


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